


I don't wanna say your love is a waiting game

by PardonMyManners



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Jonsa Smut Week, One-Shots, Romance, Smut, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15494778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PardonMyManners/pseuds/PardonMyManners
Summary: They’re dripping everywhere and she’s covered in mud and grass and she can already picture her mother’s horrified expression. None of that really matters, though, as Jon kneels and gently takes her ankle in one of his large, work-rough hands, carefully pushing up the cuff of her skinny jeans. Sansa swallows thickly, goosebumps racing up her body from where his palm warms the back of her ankle and she squeezes the edge of the counter, trying to control her breathing. She’s hyper aware of him, of the way his curls sprout and spiral out from a spot at the top of his head, the way drops of water drip from strands of his hair, splattering on her skin as he carefully moves her foot.-A collection of fics for Jonsa Smut Week.





	1. Get a Little Wet

Sansa watches through the rain as an old Ford pickup chugs to a stop in front of the curb outside. She grimaces, heart falling, and her cell phone buzzes a split second later. It’s Robb informing her, belatedly, that he won’t be able to pick her up after tutoring -no explanation, of course- and that he’s sent Jon instead. Sansa sighs, considers calling someone else for a ride, before realizing, with a sharp pang, that there _is_ no one else. Not since everything with Joffrey…

 

She shakes her head and mechanically opens the heavy library door and steps into the deluge. She’d forgotten her umbrella at home, of course, but the rain helps wash away the thoughts that have been circulating in her head for weeks, keeping her up at night and haunting her steps at school as she walks the halls of Winterfell High like a leper. She can see Jon’s familiar profile through the passenger window; broad shoulders and dark curly hair that is tousled and long. She hesitates for a split second more, rain soaking into her thin shirt and drenching her hair,  before hurrying across the sidewalk and sliding into the truck.

 

Warmth seeps into her skin instantly, and she’s enveloped in the smell of old truck and something else, something that has to be Jon; a sort of earthy, masculine smell that makes the hair on her arms stand on end. Jon gives her an awkward little wave. He’s still wearing his uniform from the local grocery store and Sansa tries and fails to suppress a spike of anger.

 

“I’m sorry Robb made you come get me,” she says, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and hoping he hadn’t had to leave work early on her account. She knows Jon and his mom need the money just as she knows that Robb has a habit of sometimes taking their friendship for granted.

 

Jon gives an awkward little shrug.

 

They’ve _always_ been awkward around each other.  There’s no denying Jon’s good looking, but he’s quiet and... different than all of Robb’s other friends who are quick to smile and flirt. She’d only just learned not to trust boys like that.

 

It’s just Jon and his mom, who’s been sick for years and doesn’t work, living mostly off her disability checks and, Sansa suspects, the Stark family’s charity. But he’s smart, nearly as smart as Robb who always gets top marks, and loyal, and always kind. Arya and Bran love him like another brother but Sansa’s never felt particularly drawn to him. She knows herself well enough now to track the feeling to its source. Her mother has never particularly approved of Jon. There have been whispers around town for years that there may be less than charitable reasons for Mr. Stark’s interest in Lyanna Snow’s health and financial well-being. Sansa knows her father better than that, but still, she’d always had other things, other people, other boys to dream about.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon says, not looking at her as the rain washes the world outside in waves of muted gray. He shifts the truck into first and it hums pleasantly beneath her. He keeps the cab clean and cozy, even homey, and she burrows further into the old leather seat.

 

She bites her lip, uncertain of what to say as he pulls slowly out of the school parking lot. Ever since Joffrey had dumped her and started spreading all those nasty rumors about her, she’s felt like a stranger in her own skin; as if she’d been asleep for years and she's only just now waking up and realizing that the world has been moving by without her. She feels almost fragile… like an exposed nerve. She resists the urge to pat down her likely moisture-frizzled hair or flip down the visor and check to see if her makeup is running.

 

Jon switches on the radio to the local classic rock station, the same one her dad’s always prefered and she’s always hated, and she finds herself admiring him from the corner of her eye. Noticing for the first time the telling definition of his forearms and biceps beneath his black shirt and the appealing way his dark curls frame his angular face. And God, the smell of him, she could take a bath in the smell, wrap herself in layers of it-

 

 _Jesus, Sansa, pull yourself together, this is_ Jon _we’re talking about here._

 

It isn’t far to her house. Jon  weaves carefully down rain slickened streets that are mostly deserted and Sansa watches water droplets slide down her window, wondering, with rising alarm, why she’s suddenly so aware of him. Why her heart rate accelerates perceptively everytime he shifts gear. She presses her thighs together, trying to ignore the telling warmth growing between them.

 

She’s oddly relieved yet...disappointed somehow as Jon eases to a stop outside her house. The driveway is empty but Jon parks on the curb, ever polite, ever uncertain of his place in their world. She looks at their two story plantation style home and wonders what he sees; excess and privilege? Is that what he sees when he looks at her? She is suddenly and intensely concerned with what Jon Snow thinks of her.

 

“Thank you,” she mutters, reaching for the door handle.

 

“Wait.”

 

She turns to watch as he reaches into the mysterious space behind his seat and produces a plain black umbrella. He holds it out to her, not meeting her eye, face placid and unreadable, and her heart sinks. He must think she’s nothing more than a silly, superficial idiot. Just his best friend's obnoxious little sister. She takes the handle from him, murmuring another thanks, wondering why she feels like crying. God, she’s such a mess.  

 

“I’ll make sure you get in,” he says.

 

“You don’t have to-” but he’s already opening his door and stepping into the downpour. Sansa hurries out of the cab.

 

He’s soaked instantly and she's glad she wore sandals as she half-wades through a puddle, hurring to his side so she can hold the umbrella over both their heads.

 

The damp heat of his shoulder pressing against the bare skin of her arm -they’re nearly the same height- sends a shiver up her spine. He glances at her, finds her looking at him, and looks quickly away, leading her up the steep drive as she tries to ignore the sudden pounding of her heart. She feels ready to crawl out of her own skin.

 

They reach the door and she tries the handle, finds it locked, and curses.

 

Jon huffs out a laugh. “Where’s your house key?”

 

Sansa considers for a moment and curses again, cheeks heating. “In my purse… which I left at home today.”

 

She chances a glance at his face, prepared for anger or even disgust, but he merely looks thoughtful, maybe even concerned.

 

“I’ll try the back door.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” she says quickly, hurrying across the driveway before he can protest.

 

He unhooks the lock to the back gate and they hurry through, the rain falling harder and thunder rumbles ominously overhead. The umbrella isn’t doing much, the wind slanting the rain, so she snaps it shut. They’re both completely drenched and she tries to ignore the fact that her bra must be completely visible beneath her thin blue shirt.

 

“Careful,” Jon warns, a few steps ahead of her.

 

“Huh?” But she lifts her head a little too late.

 

Her foot slips in the grass, the opposite ankle twinging painfully as she slides a few feet into a giant puddle.

 

Shocked, she looks to Jon who is staring down at her helplessly and bursts into laughter, lifting mud drenched hands up in disbelief. She’s still laughing like a manic as Jon tries to haul her up, effectively ending the mania as she inhales sharply against the pain in her ankle.

 

“Ankle?” Jon asks, clearly concerned, and he’s very, _very_ close. Close enough that she can see the droplets caught in his thick lashes and can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

 

She swallows thickly and nods, squeaking in shock as he immediately bends to swoop her into a princess carry.

 

She mumbles an incoherent protest, instinctively clutching at him, but he ignores her, hurrying around the back of the house, past the pool and guest house and through her mother’s carefully tended flower garden. They’re finally shielded from the worst of the storm beneath the back patio and Jon tests the sliding glass door with two fingers. It gives way easily and he carefully carries her over the threshold and its so stupidly romantic and typically _Jon_ that she immediately tries to wiggle free. His arms tightened around her, holding her briefly captive as he steps into the kitchen and sets her on the edge of the island counter as if she weighs nothing at all.

 

They’re dripping everywhere and she’s covered in mud and grass and she can already picture her mother’s horrified expression. None of that really matters, though, as Jon kneels and gently takes her ankle in one of his large, work-rough hands, carefully pushing up the cuff of her skinny jeans. Sansa swallows thickly, goosebumps racing up her body from where his palm warms the back of her ankle and she squeezes the edge of the counter, trying to control her breathing. She’s hyper aware of him, of the way his curls sprout and spiral out from a spot at the top of his head, the way drops of water drip from strands of his hair, splattering on her skin as he carefully moves her foot.

 

His eyes, deep and dark, shadowed in the dim and silent house, flick to hers and she flushes. There’s something there, something she’s seen before and missed. Something she’d always perceived as disinterest but suddenly realizes is so much more.

 

“Does that hurt?”

 

“A little,” she says honestly, though she’d hardly noticed.

 

His shirt is plastered to his body, accentuating every muscular curve. He’s strong because he has to be, because of necessity, not because he spends hours in the gym. Somehow that makes it better. She observes a drop of water trailing down the tendon of his neck and over his collar bone and she licks her lips, half terrified by her reaction and half desperate to taste him there, where the water soaks into the collar of his shirt. His fingers tighten perceptively around her ankle and she watches as his pupils dilate and his lips part. Suddenly, there’s too much space between them and she can’t seem to stop herself from reaching out and brushing one dripping curl out of his eyes, tracing the ridge of his brow with the pad of her forefinger.

 

It happens very quickly.

 

One moment he’s kneeling in front of her, gripping her ankle, and the next he’s caught her face in his hands and he’s kissing her, tongue pressing between her lips and igniting a firestorm of heat in her stomach that spreads quickly throughout her body. She throws her arms around his neck, whimpering at the sensation of his chest pressed so tightly against hers, at the way her breasts compress and her nipples tighten. Their rain drenched clothes are hardly a barrier and he growls into her mouth as they collide and fuse.

 

Sansa feels like a live wire in his arms; hands grasping at his back and shoulders, enjoying the way his muscles tense and ripple at her touch, then slipping into his damp curls, nails scratching along his scalp, making him shiver and nip deliciously at her lower lip. God, he’s such a good kisser. Almost shockingly so. _Miles_ better than Joffrey. He tastes sweet and minty and the way his lips slide across her’s and his tongue dips into her mouth makes her lift one leg and hook it around his hip. The length of his erection presses perfectly against her and her head falls back with a helpless moan. Jon attacks her neck, pressing hot, wet kisses down to the curve of her shoulder and up again as she rocks against him helplessly.

 

Feeling bold, wild even, she fumbles for the edge of his shirt and peels it up his back, desperate to feel his skin, soaking in the perfect warmth of him as she traces the ridges of his spine.

 

“Sansa,” he nearly whines, and she can feel him trembling as he takes her face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together.

 

She swallows thickly, terrified he’ll step away and take this feeling of freedom and pleasure with him.

 

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, and his lashes flutter against her cheeks. She nudges her nose against his, urging him to relent, to give in, brushing her mouth briefly against his.

 

“Why?”

 

His fingers tighten in her hair, a pleasant sting that makes her bite her lip. God, she just wants him to touch her. Wants him to do all the things she hadn't been sure of with Joffrey, things she imagines sometimes in her bed alone at night, things that are still new and scary but so, so exciting. She wants him to slip a hand down between them and tend to the pressure that’s building there, wants to feel his strong, sure fingers press inside her and-

 

“You know why,” he murmurs and she can taste the words on her tongue. He hasn’t moved away, hasn’t stopped touching her, thumbs restlessly smoothing along her jaw and she turns her head to nip at the pad of one and relishes in the way his entire body tenses and his breath catches.

 

“Do you like me?” she asks, realizing how vulnerable she is beneath the want and desire. How much she wants him to see her, _really_ see her, the way she feels like no one else does.

 

He dips his head, pressing his face into her neck and breathes in deeply. The kisses he presses into her skin are so sweet and gentle they bring tears to her eyes and she wraps her arms around him. It feels like her entire world has changed in the last few seconds.

 

“Do you really not know?” he murmurs into her skin, hands moving from her face to ghost along her sides.

 

“Jon,” she half pleads, tugging at his hair, and he seems to give up on whatever is holding him back. She can imagine well enough; she is his best friend's sister, and they’d practically grown up together. But all of that just makes it more exciting somehow, as he kisses her rough and desperate, fingers tangling in the wet fall of her hair. He’s seen her grow up, laughed with her and her family, seen her at her very best and at her very worst and there’s something so _freeing_ about it. With Jon, she doesn’t have to pretend.

 

He lets her peel his shirt off, there in the quiet familiarity of the kitchen, and he carefully returns the favor, watching with heavy eyes as she wiggles free of the confining fabric. He stares at her breasts and licks his lips, suddenly frozen with uncertainty. Sansa lifts his hand, summoning more courage than she thought she possessed, and presses it against the smooth curve of her simple bra, watching as his eyes flutter and he bites his lip. She arches her spine, desperate for him to do something, _anything_ , and he gently teases her distended nipples with the pads of his thumbs, watching her expression carefully. She whimpers, sparks flying and multiplying beneath her skin, and he grows bold, squeezing and testing their slight weight before finally tugging the left free and pressing his lips to sensitized flesh. God, she’s never felt so alive, so aware of her own body, and she’s moaning and writhing against him there, on her kitchen counter, and it’s so forbidden and perfect that she arches into him, rubbing her aching cunt against the ridge of his dick through their soaking pants.

 

He shudders against her and lifts his head. “Tell me what you like, what you want,” he demands roughly, and snakes a hand between them, pressing against her through the tight wet heat of her jeans.

 

She mewls. “I want you, please, Jon, I need- I don’t-”  she doesn’t know what she wants, beyond the coiling pressure within her and the knowledge that he's the only one that can free her from him. It’s so new, so beyond anything she’s ever experienced, even her own fumbling attempts alone at night have never been close to this.

 

He takes in a shaky breath, anchors her to him with his free arm, and begins to rub his fingers against her carefully and then with building speed and pressure. She clings to him, caught in a tide she can’t fight, mindless save for the sensations he elicits within her. He buries his face in her neck again, groaning all sorts of filthy things, some of which she only barely understands, but they make it so much better. She loves how shes unraveling him, how he strains against her, how he seems just as desperate for her as she feels for him.  

 

A tingling sensation begins to build, starting in her fingers and toes and spreading. It bows her back and she ruts against his hand helplessly. He groans her name and dips his head, taking the nipple of her free breast in his mouth and sucking, hard. Sansa feels as though she’s breaking apart, and she clings to him as she implodes, toes curling and thighs trembling as waves of warmth and pleasure sweep her away and then slowly back again.

 

He pulls back, hand still pressed against her through her jeans where she still pulses pleasantly, and he’s a mess of flushed, swollen lips, tousled wet hair, and stormy, heavy lidded eyes. Something in her heart takes root and grows just looking at him.

 

Across the house, the front door opens. They stare at one another wide eyed for a moment before scrambling for their shirts. Robb and his girlfriend, Myrcella round the corner, laughing and holding hands as she and Jon situate themselves behind the counter, a very careful distance apart.

 

Her brother stops short as he spots them and then frowns, suspicion swimming in his eyes.

 

“What the hell happened to you two?”

 

Sanse swallows thickly, sure her face is bright red and a dead give away of what _exactly_ just happened to the two of them.

 

“I-I fell and twisted my ankle… Jon, carried me inside.”

 

Robb’s eyes flick between the two of them as Jon remains silent, rocking back on his heels. Finally, Robb shrugs and pulls a smiling Myrcella toward the stairs. “Way to be a clutz, San. You’re covered in mud, by the way, and uh, I think your shirt’s on backwards.”

 

Sansa looks down, mortified, and Jon coughs out a laugh. She shoots him a glare but it dissolves instantly at the soft look on his face. He can’t seem to hold her stare for long, and ducks his head to rub at the back of his neck.

 

“Would you uh, like to get dinner, or something, maybe… some time?”

 

Sansa bites her lip to keep from laughing. Its funny how unsure he is after he’d just had his mouth and hands all over her. “Yeah… yeah I would.”

 

His answering smile could light the world with it’s warmth and she couldn’t stop herself from closing the distance between them and kissing him if she tried.


	2. Virgin Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two of Jonsa Smut Week: Virgin Territory
> 
> In which Jon kept his vows and returns to the Wall after the White Walkers are defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I am incapable of NOT writing angst.

“You really mean to go back to the Wall? After everything that has happened?”

 

Jon doesn’t turn, facing the open window in her solar with hunched shoulders, sunlight catching the strands of gray in his hair that had only recently begun to sprout. Outside, the Dragon Queen’s procession rides South.

 

“It’s the only life I know.”

 

“That isn’t true,” she insists, her voice near on pleading as she takes a step toward him, but it's as if a great chasm has grown between them, one she cannot gap alone. She can feel him slipping through her fingers, like snow melting in the palm of her hand. “This is your home.”

 

He glances over his shoulder, eyes fathomless and face placid. He shakes his head at her. “No, I am not a Stark. I never was.”

 

“Jon, _please_ -”

 

“Don’t,” he snaps, voice hard and brittle and she swallows against the lump in her throat. He braces his hands on the windowsill, letting his head hang for a moment.

 

“I’ve broken enough vows and… it would be better for everyone if I left.”

 

There’s something in his tone, in the line of his shoulders that tells her what he's truly saying. That tells her she isn’t the only one who has sensed the tension growing between them and what it means.

 

“I-if that is what you want,” she demurs. Maybe he’s right, maybe it’s better he goes, though everything inside her screams against it.  Who is she, now, without him?

 

Jon scoffs out a laugh, and his face, when he turns, is carved in bitterness. “When has it ever mattered what any of us want?”

 

-

 

He’s gone a year before she sees him again.

 

He arrives with little preamble or warning, and she’s preparing for bed when her steward comes to tell her that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is waiting in her solar. Despite the time and distance, her heart leaps into her throat and she has to take several long, steadying breaths before she can find the courage to leave her chambers.

 

Little has changed. His face is the same, his full lips pulled into a familiar brooding frown, and his dark eyes follow her careful steps across the room like a hunter tracking his prey. His hair is damp, glistening in the firelight, and his clothing is creased from travel but clean, telling her he’d bathed before meeting her. There are many conclusions she could infer, but she refuses to feel hopeful, refuses to entertain what can never be.

 

She quirks a smile and holds her hand out to him. He hesitates for only a moment before taking it and dipping his head to press his lips gruffly to her knuckles. Fire blooms where his wind chapped lips leave a faint, but enduring brand on her skin.

 

“Your Grace,” he murmurs the words and they are almost reverent. She doesn’t think she imagines the way his thumb caresses the inside of her wrist before he releases her.

 

“Is anything amiss?” she asks, folding her hands before her and lifting her chin. She’d hoped that time and distance might have eased the tension but it has only fermented and grown stronger, like a sweet, tantalizing wine.

 

“No,” he says, gaze darting from her to the fire and settling. The angles of his face are thrown into sharp relief and her heart trembles traitorously in her breast. She has been so alone since he left. So cold and empty. “I’ve come to gather some local boys who wish to go north.”

 

She frowns. “We already sent our prisoners-”

 

He shakes his head and his smile is sardonic. “No, these are volunteers.”

 

She shares in his smile, the tether between them humming to life, dormant, perhaps, but never gone. “Things have certainly changed.”

 

His gaze finds her again and something warm and dangerous glows in the reflected firelight. “Not everything,” he murmurs.

 

Sansa swallows thickly. “No… not everything.”  

 

He stays a week, spending most of his time with Arya and Gendry, but in the evenings, they sit before her hearth and discuss Winterfell and the North. They grow comfortable again, nearly as comfortable as they’d been before the truth of his parentage had come to light and everything had come crashing down. Still, the tension between them simmers beneath the surface, sparking to life when his hand brushes hers at dinner as they both reach for the same glass, or when his shoulder bumps against hers as he leans over to examine the ledger.

 

Some nights she cannot sleep, haunted by desires she never expected to have. Wishing for things she’d never thought to want. Fumbling, half formed fantasies, sweet and unsure and tainted with her horrors, but still hopeful in their fragile formation. There’s a coiling pressure within her that leaves her tossing and turning beneath the furs, desperate for some kind of release but helpless in securing it. She thinks Jon could help her, thinks he could find the right ways to touch her, to hold her, to banish the terrors that haunt her still.

 

But when he leaves with little more than a brotherly kiss to her cheek, she prays he’ll take the confusing feelings within him. She fears, however, that she will never truly be free of them.  

-

Eventually, the Northern lords accept the fact that she has no intention of marrying any of them, but it is a bitter draught. Arya is surprisingly supportive and their combined efforts quell the worst of the naysayers.

 

Still, she will need an heir and she has precious few options before her. A plan begins to form in her mind, a desperate, fragile one that takes root in her heart and will not let her rest. There is only one man she would want to father her children. Only one man she can bear the thought of sharing her bed.

 

It takes her nearly a fortnight to compose the message, and she feeds nearly two dozen bits of precious parchment to the fire before she is satisfied. She asks him to come for Arya’s and Gendry’s wedding, a very convenient excuse and one she knows he will not deny, even if Arya would prefer no one make an ‘event’ of it.

 

When he arrives a mere three weeks later, she meets him in the courtyard and his smile warms her to her toes. He is such a handsome man when he smiles, and they are so rare as to be exceedingly precious. She has taken to collecting them like charms, using them to ward away the fear and loneliness.

 

She shows him every courtesy, makes him as comfortable as she can, but inside she is a mess of uncertainty. What if he turns her away? What if she comes to him and finds only disgust?

 

 _Courage_ , _Sansa_ , _courage_.

 

The ceremony is small and Arya shocks them all by wearing a gown. Simple and elegant, one of Sansa’s design, and she weeps openly as Arya walks to Gendry’s side, who’s just as starstruck as the rest of them. The irony is not lost on her; to think it is Arya who should wed a handsome knight while she remains alone, world hardened and broken. She hates that such thoughts taint what should be only a happy moment, but the world has taken so much from her, it is hard not to mourn its passing.

 

Jon slips his hand into hers beneath the folds of her gown and she fears all the world can hear the traitorous pounding of her heart. His touch banishes the ache in her breast, casting light into the shadowed hallways of her heart. In its wake, there is only joy.

 

There is a small feast, nothing extravagant, of course, Arya being particularly impartial to refinery, but the food is good, the hall is warm, and the music enjoyable if not rather… coarse for her tastes. It's the happiest she’s seen her people since the war ended.

 

Nervousness has her calling the serving boy more often than perhaps is prudent, but the warmth of the wine ignites a pleasant heat in her gut that loosens her limbs, and when of the younger lords asks her to dance, she finds herself accepting. It's not a dance she knows well, favored among the common folk, but she takes to it well enough. She’s always been an excellent dancer. Her skirta spins wide and her hair fans about her and she finds herself laughing and clapping in time with the music. The press of Jon’s gaze eventually draws her attention across the hall and it takes her a moment to read what waits her there.

 

 _Jealousy. Longing_.

 

He holds her entranced for a long heartbeat, letting her see the truth of his heart for one brief moment before her partner reaches out and tugs her back into the fray. When she looks again, he is gone.

 

-

She waits well into the night.

 

She takes her time in bathing, scrubbing her skin and rubbing it with lightly scented oils. Seated naked before the fire, she brushes her hair in long, even strokes as the darkness deepens and grows thick around her. There is something… ritualistic about it. The air in her lungs tastes of fate, of something that has been long in the making, for better or for ill she cannot say, but she feels powerless in the face of it. She isn’t certain she believes in gods, old or new, but there is a sense of a wheel turning, of moments that are predetermined; she wonders if this is such a one.

 

At last, she creeps into the hall. Her hair is loose and free, her feet bare and silent as a whisper on the chilled stone beneath her feet, and she clutches her robe tightly to her chest. The blood of wolves and winter seeps through the castle and into her bones, lending her courage.

 

She presses the door of his chambers open, the hinges blessedly silent, and closes it carefully before securing the latch. He is asleep beneath the furs, painted in moonlight that turns his hair to dark silver. His chest is bare and open to her view, marred by deep scars and chiseled from pale stone. Her resolve nearly deserts her then, the memory of unwanted hands and terrifying invasion fresh in her mind, but then his lashes flutter and his eyes open.

 

“Sansa,” he murmurs, as if she is little more than a dream. The fear vanishes.

 

 _This is as it should be_.

 

She steals a breath and slips the robe slowly from her shoulders, baring herself to him, and moves slowly toward the bed. His eyes widen and he sits up, disbelief and desire fighting for dominance on his face. A face she takes between her slim hands as she climbs carefully atop him.

 

“Sansa,” he says again, voice an utter ruin and she presses her fingertips into the nap of his neck, angling it upwards, and touches her lips gently to his.

 

He is still and cold for a long and terrible heartbeat, but then a great shuddering sigh wracks through him and he comes to life beneath her. His arms engulf her, making her gasp at the sudden contact, and he presses his advantage, slipping his tongue between her lips. She is no virgin, but nothing has ever felt like this before. Kissing Petyr had always felt like a formality, an expected show of affection, and Ramsey… well.

 

Kissing Jon is beyond anything she could have prepared herself for. All sense is lost as she clings to him, tugging at his hair,  which as soft and sweet as she imagined, sliding through her fingers like silk. He taste of wine and something else, something that has no name, something sweet and intoxicating, and it is a heady mixture that fills her senses. He tugs her head back by her hair, a pleasant sting that burns along her scalp, and he ravages her throat and chest, his tongue tracing a tantalizing bath over the top of her breast before reaching its peak. She cries out, unprepared for the shock of pleasure that shoots through her and settles between her thighs, making her cunt ache suddenly and acutely. It is a hungry, foreign feeling that both frightens and excites her.

 

Jon lifts his face and presses it into her throat and he’s trembling against her, his strong arms wrapped around her as if he’s afraid she might turn to smoke and disappear. As if she is not the only one who’s dreamed of tangled limbs and soft, desperate sighs.

 

“Sansa,” he half moans, and she soothes her hands up his spine, seeking to comfort and well as inspire. She cannot keep herself from writhing atop him, the pressure building rather than abating, and he groans against her throat, arms tightening near to painful. The hard line of his arousal throbs against her.  

 

“I don’t- I’ve never,” he sputters, body tense, and she shivers at the moist heat of his breath. She can hardly think with him so close. “I want to…I want to please you, but I-”

 

Understanding presses through the haze of desire and she pulls back to study him, surprised.

 

“You mean, you never-”

 

His eyes grow defensive and dip away. He tries to extricate himself but she holds him close. She’d rather die than allow any distance between them. Not now, not yet.

 

“But Daenerys, I thought-”

 

She can see the flush of his cheeks even in the darkness. “No, we never… it wouldn’t have been right.”

 

Sansa swallows and takes his face in her hands, waiting until he meets her eyes again. There is anguish there; guilt and uncertainty, but also a deep and endless longing.

 

“There can be no one but you Jon. If you will not have me, I-”

 

He shushes her gently and leans forward to press his brow to hers, arms lifting to encase her once more. “I-I will do anything you ask of me, Sansa. Anything.”

 

“Because I am your Queen?” she asks, stiffening with growing dread. Deference is the very last thing she wants from him.

 

He huffs and shakes his head, smoothing her hair away from her face and studying her in the bare light. “Because I’ve loved you longer than I should admit, because I cannot sleep for thinking of you, because I would break every vow I have ever taken if only to please you.”

 

Tears well. “Oh, Jon, I-”

 

But there are no words, nothing that can encapsulate what it is she feels for him, so she shows him with hands and mouth instead. Shows him how to touch her, how to please her, though she hardly knows herself. Whatever Jon lacks in experience, he certainly makes up for in enthusiasm. He explores her body with the same sort of determination she’s seen him use planning battles, intensely focused on a single goal; her. All the men she’s had before have demanded, have taken and stolen what they felt they deserved, Jon gives, he gives until she is a trembling, broken mess beneath him, clutching at the furs as his head dips between her thighs and his fingers stretch inside her.

 

He brings her to the edge of oblivion and then carries her through it, holding her as she gasps and sobs, tears leaking from her eyes and he kisses them gently away.  

 

“Now,” she tells him, wrapping her legs around his hips, “Now, Jon.”

 

His answering groan seems ripped from his very soul and his entire body trembles as he presses into her with the guidance of her hand. She arches against him, mouth open in a silent gasp as he fills her inch by delicious inch. She had feared this, had feared the ghosts this might stir to life, but there is only Jon, the scent of his skin, the rough cadence of his breath, and the taste of him on her tongue. She presses her eyes closed against the sudden intensity, and he begins to move, shallow at first, then with rising exuberance.

 

“Look at me,” he demands in a feral growl and her eyes flutter open, searching for him.

 

She has never seen him so undone. His face is fierce and contorted in pleasure, eyes near black with desire, trained on her face with blinding intensity. One hand grips the back of her neck, anchoring her to him as his hips snap with an indelicately wet sound and she moans long and loud, not caring if all the North should hear them. Let them hear. Let them know.

 

“I dreamed of this,” he gasps, his other hand grasping roughly at her hip. “I dreamed of how your cunt would feel, what it would taste like-” He changes the angle of his hips and they both cry out. He presses his face into her shoulder and near shouts her name as he comes undone above her, his strong body shaking with the force of his release as he thrusts raggedly into her, and Sansa has never felt more powerful than when she holds him against and inside her, soothing him through the waves of his undoing.

 

Eventually he stills, pulling free of her and rolling to his side, leaving a sticky, cooling mess between her thighs. She presses them together, hoping to keep the memory of him there, inside her, and rolls toward him, praying he will not push her away. He pulls her close and buries his face in her hair with a broken sigh.

 

In the morning, he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are lovely and so are you.


	3. Almost All the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon have a hard time keeping their relationship a secret when they travel to the Stark family home for Christmas. 
> 
> Day 3 (belated) of the Jonsa Smut Week: Almost All the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of smut, essentially no plot. Enjoy!

It had seemed simple enough, in theory.

 

Arrive at her parent’s house for Christmas in separate vehicles on separate days. Sleep in separate rooms and try to avoid being alone together whenever possible (just to be extra careful). It was only for a week, she’d reasoned. How hard could that be?

 

As Sansa slides her hand under the waistband of Jon’s sweatpants, she finds it to be _very_ hard indeed. He groans as she pumps her hand down the length of him, once, twice, a third time, stroking the sensitive underside of his dick with a trimmed thumb nail, making him shiver.

 

“Shhh,” she chastises, but she’s thrilled, as always, by the effect she has on him. “Do you want to wake the whole house?”

 

Jon grunts into her neck, where he’s pressing hot, wet kisses along her collarbone, beard scraping against her skin. She’ll be bright red tomorrow; good thing she brought a turtleneck. Jon roughly pulls down the front of her pajama top and fondles her bare breast with practiced ease, teasing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger until she lets her head fall back against the wall behind her, panting and clutching at him. It’s embarrassing how wet she is for him already; she can feel it, soaking into her cotton panties and painting her thighs. Her cunt aches like a bruise, pulsing with need, and she ruts against him, seeking some kind of pressure, some means of release. The last four days have been the longest they’ve gone without touching each other since they’d hooked up one night after Robb’s graduation party six months ago. She hadn’t realized how addicted she’d become, how much she needed his touch, his taste, his smell.

 

“Maybe we’ll see how quiet _you_ can be,” he taunts, nipping at her earlobe before dropping to his knees, large hands smoothing down her sides before massaging her ass as he drags her pelvis toward him enticingly. She hums and runs her fingers through his hair. It’s almost pitchblack in the close confines of the laundry room, but his eyes glint up at her.

He presses his face into her loose shorts and breathes in deeply, the arch of his nose nudging along her clit and she gasps, eyes fluttering shut.  Sex with Jon has been mind blowing from the start, shockingly so. She hadn’t known it could be so good. But this, face between her thighs, is where he truly excels. She can feel him smile there, against where she pulses with need, knows she is wet, perhaps soaking through the thin linen of her shorts, and the thought makes her whimper. Jon responds by pressing several firm, teasing kisses against her before finally, _finally,_ hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and shorts and tugging them down.

 

She already shaking, one hand clutching his hair and the other braced on the nearby washer for balance. Jon lifts one of her legs over his shoulder, running lips and tongue over the inside of her thigh as she quivers. His eyes glint up at her.

 

“You have to be quiet or I’ll stop, understand?” She likes this, the velvety threat and lingering promise in his voice. She bites her lip and nods.

 

She catches a flashes of teeth in the dark as he uses his thumbs to gently part the folds of her pussy and she can feel the heat of his breath. Something about the forced separation and the fear of discovery has her already on edge, already dizzy and weak with desire. The first teasing swipe of his tongue has her seeing stars and she chokes back a moan, lifting the hand that isn’t tangled in his hair up behind her to brace against the wall, pressing her face into her arm as he slowly slides his tongue around her pulsing clit.

 

Her knees turn to melted butter and Jon presses closer, bracing most of her weight on his shoulder, and wraps his lips around her clit as he slowly inserts first one finger and then another. She couldn’t have helped her corresponding moan if her life had depended on it.

 

Jon immediately pulls away and she whimpers at the loss of contact. He twists his fingers inside her before drawing them slowly, so slowly, out of her. Turning his head he bites the sensitive inside of her thigh just hard enough to sting.

 

“Quiet,” he growls, voice rough and warm and she loves it when he sounds like that, like he’s only holding himself back by an unraveling thread.

 

“I’m trying,” she whines, resisting the urge to physically press his mouth back against her.

He chuckles against her sensitized flesh, and begins again, licking her slowly, carefully, the warmth inside her building and pulsing beneath his expert ministrations.

 

She has a distant moment of wonder, recalling a past that seems hard to relate with the present. She and Jon had spent most of their teenage years together, under the same roof, largely bypassing one another as they existed in their separate social spheres. Now he’s thrusting two fingers inside her and sucking gently on her clit. Mostly, she thinks of they could have been doing this much, _much_ sooner.  

 

Her orgasm builds and she presses one hand to her mouth, thighs quivering and muscles clenching. Jon, sensing her impending release, continues his slow, even pressure, but growls with encouragement as her fingers tighten in his hair and she presses him against her, unable to help herself.

 

“God, Jon, _shit,_ ” she moans, abandoning all pretense of silence as her orgasm curls her toes and has her hips rutting wantonly against his wonderful, perfect tongue. God, he’s so good at that, she thinks hazily.

 

He takes his time, coaxing her through it with mouth and fingers, murmuring filthy encouragement into the quivering mouth of her cunt. She reaches for him, intent on having him inside her, when a sounds makes them both freeze.

 

Footsteps and a voice, someone calling her name. They scramble apart; Sansa shoving her foot through her panties and shorts and tugging them up, and Jon looking around wildly for some place to hide.

 

“Behind the door,” she hisses as the footsteps grow closer.

 

“Sansa?” Her mother asks, clearly concerned.

 

Jon barely manages to press himself behind the door before the light switches on and her mother peers into the room.

 

She frowns, studying her. “Sansa, what are you doing? You’re flushed darling, are you alright.”

A thousand stupid excuses race through her mind before she settles on one. “I uh, couldn’t sleep so I decided to do some...yoga.” It takes all her will power to keep from glancing at Jon.

 

“In the dark?”

 

Sansa nods and hurries forward, trying to ignore how weak her knees are and sure the entire room smells of sex and the detergent Jon uses.

 

“Yeah it helps me relax… I was thinking of tea, would you like some tea?”

 

Her mom lets her half push her out into the hall.

 

“Sure, dear, but maybe you should run upstairs and put on a sweater.”

 

Sansa glances back in confusion and something wicked is dancing in Catelyn Stark’s eyes. “Your neck is covered in hickies, dear, you should really tell Jon to be more conscientious.”

 

Sansa is sure her mouth literally pops open in shock. Her mom laughs in her face.

 

“Oh really, you two. Did you really think we didn’t know? It’s terribly obvious honey, the way you two are always looking at each other. The only one who is still in denial is Robb, poor boy, but he’ll come around.”

 

“Mom, I-” she has no idea what to say, and half wishes the floor beneath her would open up and swallow her whole.

 

Her mother flutters a hand at her. “Don’t worry, dear, I’m headed back to bed, I merely came down for a glass of water and heard a noise. You go and fetch poor Jon out of the laundry and both of you get back to bed. Tomorrow, I encourage the two of you to decide how… _serious_ you are, and perhaps speak to your father, alright?”

 

Sansa can only nod, relief and embarrassment warring for dominance. Catelyn chuckles and presses a kiss to Sansa’s cheek as she moves back down the hall and up the stairs. She stands there in the dark, heart in her throat for a long moment, before she laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. She and Jon had tiptoed around defining their relationship for months; both acutely aware that her family very well might not approve and any relationship between them might become… _complicated_ , if it didn’t work out.

 

Sansa realizes, perhaps a bit begrudgingly, that she’s been in love with him almost from the first. Running a hand through her tangled hair, she goes to collect her likely mortified boyfriend.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic one for Jonsa Smut Week complete! Can't promise one everyday for the challenge but I will do my best!


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